Fixing a Hole
by Comickazi13
Summary: Quinn Winslow hates her life, namely the people in it. When she hits her head...hard, she is transported back to the 60s where she meets everyone's favorite Fab Four: The Beatles. Rated T for language and innuendos.
1. And so it begins

"Look at Quinn!"

"What a dork!"

"I've never seen anything like her in my life!"

"It's like she straight out of a cheesy movie from the 70s!"

The hurtful comments still rang in my ears as I walked home from the pre-opening night party. I covered my ears with my palms, trying to stop the voices from harassing me. But they still laughed and teased me about how I danced or how I acted or what phrases I used.

"No one's said 'groovy,' since the 1960s!"

"What do you call _that _dance move? The spastic hippo?"

"You _do_ realize that no one here likes you, right?"

_No one here likes you. No one here likes you. No one here likes you._

The phrase echoed in my mind as I ran back the three blocks from Kasey MacAfee's house. Tears started to appear in the corner of my eyes. I had no idea why I was crying. I was going to turn twenty next April and here I was doing something only a hormonal teenager would do.

I rounded the corner and zipped up to my house. Speedily unlocking it, I ran into the living room and flung myself on the couch where I proceeded to wail like a baby. I kept thinking about how cruel my fellow cast members were. All of them were around eighteen to twenty years old. All of them had experience in theatre before. And all of them were self-centered diva bitches...Well, except for a couple, but they were always too busy associating themselves with the diva bitches and becoming diva bitch babies to bother themselves with me.

I didn't want to do the show anymore. I didn't care if I was playing my dream role as Ulla in _The Producers_. It wasn't even opening night and I wanted to just quit.

My contact lenses were floating on the layer of salt-tears over my eyeballs, making everything very hard to see. Quickly, I hurried to the bathroom and took them out, putting them in their special little case with their special disinfectant liquid. When I looked at my face in the mirror, I did not really like what I saw.

Everyone was amazed when a girl with black hair got the role of Ulla instead of a blonde. Instead, the director just ended up wigging me.

My eyesight was terrible. I had worn glasses for nearly fourteen years, but I switched to contact lenses for the last eight of them. In theory, I could have gotten eye surgery, but I could barely make ends meet with the house payments and the car payments and the groceries and such. I had literally no money to spare. However, now the area around my eyes was red and the lining closer to my eyes was irritated and even redder.

My nose was dribbling snot and I had drooled a little bit on myself. I was not a pretty crier; that much was for sure.

I grabbed the end of the toilet paper roll and gave it a stiff yank, unrolling about half of the tube. But I didn't care. I tore the sheets off and started dabbing my face wildly, even though no one would care what I looked like.

As this thought ran through my mind, I knew how true it was.

_No one here likes you. No one here likes you. No one here likes you._

My pace slowed and I shuffled out of the bathroom. I didn't bother turning on any lights as I walked to my bedroom. When I got to my bedroom, I wiggled out of my flair jeans and peeled off my tie-dye t-shirt, throwing it in a corner. I reached under my pillow and pulled out my pajamas: XXL t-shirt and a pair of men's boxers with the front sewn up. Putting my pajamas on, I flopped on my bed and looked over at my digital clock.

11:11 PM

Now, I'm not one for fairy tale clichés, but in this case, I was pretty miserable.

"Please," I whispered to my pillow, "get me out of here."


	2. A dissapointment

When I woke up, I thought I felt something different. I rubbed my legs against the fabric covering me and thought it was rougher than my sheets on my bed. I quickly sat bolt-upright and opened my eyes. Maybe my wish had come true! Maybe I was out of the little hellhole that was called Quinn's Life!

But, all I found was that I had somehow managed to kick my sheets off and remain under my knitted, scratchy, wool blanket. I sighed, buried my head in my hands, and stood up. Tonight was opening night and I'd have to face the cast again.

I told myself to buck up and take it. I would only have to spend six more weekends with these people. Then, I wouldn't even have to go to the closing night party if I didn't want to. With this in mind, I made my bed and went to my closet to get dressed for the day. After deciding on a pair of skinny jeans, a white tank-top, a brown suede jacket, and a pair of my favorite converses, I grabbed my car keys and headed to work.

. . . .

I hummed along with the old Beatles tune wafting from the radio as I dusted off the countertop at the Starbucks in the Albertsons in Simi Valley, California where I worked. I loved how I was positioned right in front of the giant flower fridge. The smell of flowers and coffee was always my favorite smell.

When I was little, my dad would always bring my mom coffee in bed and he'd always bring her a little bouquet of flowers when he was out particularly late. When I got older, I thought he was cheating on my mom, but he never was. He was devoted to her from the start. I always wanted a relationship like my parents'. But, I figured I'd never have one. I was just too weird.

"Excuse me; I'll have one black coffee, please." The order shocked me out of my thoughts and I looked at the person. He looked really familiar, but I couldn't place the face.

"Okay," I said, quietly. I walked to the back counter and got a cup. I turned back around and looked at him strangely. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

The guy looked at me and shook his head.

"Not that I'm aware of," he shrugged.

"Oh." I poured the coffee into his cup and snapped the lid on. Then, I walked back over to the counter. "Two-seventy-five, please," I smiled nicely.

"Man," he sighed. "These coffee prices just keep going up and up." He slid the money over the counter.

"I know," I agreed as I put his money in the register. "Thanks for coming to Starbucks. Have a great day."

"You too." And then he left. There wasn't that much to him. He had scraggly, dark-brown hair and deep-brown eyes that seemed to dive into my brain to tell exactly what I was thinking. And it was because of that very first customer of the day that I couldn't concentrate on anything else for the rest of the workday.

When my boss told me that I could go home, I quickly hung up my apron and wandered back to my car in the parking lot. And then it was time to drive to the Simi Valley Cultural Arts Center for opening night of _The Producers_.

. . . .

"Oh God, look who's here," Kasey MacAfee sneered as I walked into the girls' dressing room. "Sorry, Qunnie, this dressing room is for talented actresses only. We don't want any of your retro crap." The other girls tittered as I got my costume and headed into the bathroom where I would stay until my cue.

"Darn," I sighed as I saw the tear in my costume. I had a feeling I knew who the perpetrators were. I took a needle and some thread from my makeup bag and sewed up the hole. I looked at the stitching. It was very obvious compared with the other seams.

So, I took more of the thread and looped it in the eye of the needle. I had always been good with the needle, so I pulled up part of my skirt. Not only would it get rid of the tear, it would make my costume look better. Besides, I could always take the stitching out if they needed me to.

. . . .

Opening night is the greatest time for things to go wrong in a show. It's when set pieces break and props go missing. It's when your costumes get holes in them in the most embarrassing places.

It's also the time for you to be seriously injured.

"Don't think twice! Ven you got it, share it!" I belted, beckoning "Max Bialystock" and "Leo Bloom" over to the desk. They rushed over immediately. "Let the public feast upon your charms!" I leaned over the desk to do my handstand so I could go into my splits when "Max" helped me.

But when I pushed off, he wasn't ready and I went crashing to the hard floor, headfirst. My neck crunched loudly, I felt my head smash on the floor, and everything went black as the audience gasped.


	3. Ninteensixtywhat?

When I woke up, my head was killing me. I felt cramped and I found that my knees were right up to my face. More than that, I found that I couldn't see very well. Everything was blurry. When I struggled to rub my eyes to see what was wrong, I felt something cold and metallic on my skin. I struggled harder and I heard rattling. Suddenly, my legs started to cramp. I squeezed my eyes shut and stood up.

My head hit something, but it kept going. When I was standing at my full height, I saw that I was…in a garbage can.

"Funny," I said to myself, "I don't remember having my body crammed into a trashcan onstage. Maybe everyone thought I was dead so they tossed me." I reached up to rub my eyes again to find… "What the heck? When did I start wearing glasses again?" I took off the frames to see they were big, black, and blocky. Total nerd glasses. But, they were really cool in my opinion. I cleaned them off on my skirt and stuck them back on my face.

When I could see clearly again, I saw that I wasn't even close to the Simi Valley Cultural Arts Center. Instead, there was a big, white building in front of me. I was just about to climb out of the garbage can when there was a sudden commotion and a security guard burst through the door. I ducked back inside the can and pulled the lid over me. When I felt the can being lifted up and carried away, I started to panic.

_WHERE AM I GOING?!_

I kept my trap shut, not wanting to make my existence known quite yet. I didn't know where I was, where I was going, and my own name was even debatable.

_Quinn. My name's Quinn._

I felt a sudden jolt as the can hit the ground and I heard retreating footsteps. When there was just a faint, yet constant buzzing noise, I stood up again, setting the can's lid on the floor. I was now inside what I assumed to be the white building I had seen. I obviously wasn't going to get answers by sitting in the trashcan, so I climbed out and looked around for a few seconds.

I appeared to be in an intersection of eight hallways. I just kind of turned in a circle five or six times, trying to figure out which hallway I should go down. When I was getting too dizzy, I just picked number three and started walking.

As I walked, I heard noises. People were rushing around, headsets clamped over their ears and clipboards clutched to their stomachs. A few security guards dressed all in black wandered around, carrying screaming teenage girls over their shoulders. (I gave these girls odd looks as they passed.) What made this scene strange was that everyone was wearing totally retro clothes and working really old equipment.

_What is going on here?_

"Hey, you!" one of the guards shouted. "Don't just stand there! Get to work. We're on _live_ in twenty minutes!" I whirled around and looked at the man.

He was bald, buff, and scary, typical trademarks of anything relating to security guards. He lowered his massive sunglasses off his face and looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Must be new here," he muttered to himself. He turned his head back to me. "First day on the job, kid?"

I stayed silent. Deciding to go along with it, I nodded dumbly.

He shrugged. "My name's Otto." He extended a beefy paw in my direction and I shook his hand without saying a word. "I'll take you to Marie. She's in charge of the makeup-wardrobe department here. I'm assuming that's where you're going?"

I nodded again. Otto grabbed my arm and started weaving me through the crowds of people. I ran into a couple people, but they rushed off before I could apologize.

"Okay, kid," Otto called over his shoulder, "what do you call yourself?"

"Um…I'm…I…" I faltered. Mentally, I smacked myself in the face. "Quinn," I breathed. "Quinn Winslow."

"Okay, Winslow." Otto's voice was muffled because he was walking away from me. "Marie'll ask you some questions when we get there. Don't be intimidated. She's strict on everyone. You have to be pretty stout-hearted to get through her interview. But she has to be. I mean, this _is_ the Ed Sullivan Show."

I stopped dead in my tracks. This caused Otto to drag me a couple feet.

"Did you just say _Ed Sullivan_?" I said in disbelief. Otto nodded. "There has to be a mistake. The Ed Sullivan Show hasn't shown since 1971!" Otto gave me a look.

"I think _you're_ the one that's made a mistake," he huffed. "Today is February 9th, 19_64_."


	4. Getting a job at Ed Sullivan's

"What?!" I exclaimed. I reached up and touched the back of my head. "How hard did I hit the ground when I fell off that desk?"

"Look, Winslow," Otto sighed, his voice starting to become impatient, "we have a lot to do. Important guests today. I have to make sure everything's shipshape. And I also have to get _you_ to makeup-wardrobe. So stop talking like a crazy person and get the lead out."

"B-B-But…" I stammered. But Otto had already got a grip on my arm and was hauling me through more crowds of people. A few minutes later, we came to a clearer hallway and Otto led me to the third door on the left.

"Marie," he called as he opened the door a crack, "everyone decent in there?"

"You know full well I don't get the boys for wardrobe until 3:00," said an annoyed voice from inside. Otto laughed before opening the door all the way. I looked inside.

There was a woman in her early 30s standing beside a mannequin, pinning a gray jacket in places where it would have to be brought in at the chest and lengthened at the cuffs. The top layer of her fluffy red hair was pulled up in a small ponytail over the rest of her hair. The roots of her hair were turning slightly gray with stress and her dark brown eyes were tired and had dark circles under them. She pushed her wire-framed glasses up her nose and looked at me with a weird look.

"And you are?" Marie mumbled, unimpressed.

"This is Quinn Winslow," Otto smiled, gesturing to me. He walked over to Marie and put his arm around her. "She's a little kooky. Thinks it's 1971."

"And?"

"She's new. Makeup-wardrobe department. Figured you hired her," Otto said in confusion. He shrugged. "Well, I'll leave this to you, Marie. Nice meeting you, Winslow, weird as you are." He waved before leaving.

"I haven't hired anyone in three years," Marie huffed to herself. She eyed me carefully. "Kid, can you work a needle?"

"Sure," I smiled. "I'm pretty good."

"Ugh," she grimaced. "Self-esteem." She stalked over to me and circled me. "If you want to stay in this business, you need to learn that you are nothing. You have no talent and you take orders from me."

"Excuse me?"

"Now, we have an important guest coming in for this jacket," Marie announced, gesturing to the mannequin. "I need you to fix any little things that he complains about."

"But…"

"Okay, then," she snorted. "If you get that done without making any trouble, you're hired. Just a few questions I need to ask you. First, your birthday? I need to know how old you are so they don't get on my case about underage workers."

"Erm…April 13th, 1990," I whispered.

"Excuse me, I don't think I heard you right," Marie glared. "It sounded like you said you were born in 1990."

"That's right," I mumbled.

"Everyone knows it's 1964, you silly girl," Marie scoffed. "So how old are you?"

"Nearly 20," I sighed.

"So you were born in 1944," she retorted, writing it down on a scrap of paper. "Our guest will be in soon. Get that coat ready to be tried on." Marie fluffed her hair and left before I could protest.

_This is the second time someone's tried to tell me that I'm in the 60s. And they call _me_ crazy…_

I knelt down by the bottom edge of the coat. Marie's stitching was atrocious. The stitches were much too long and she picked too black of a thread for the gray suit. I took some pins out of the jacket and was about to fix some of it. There was a knock at the door.

"Um…C-Come in?" I stammered. The door opened and I saw something I thought I'd never see. Even when I was standing face-to-face with it, I couldn't believe my eyes. "George Harrison?!"


	5. George Harrison!

"Hey, has Marie finished my jacket? She said something about it being too short on the arms," the famous Liverpuddlian accent slurred as the Beatle wandered into the room. I stood frozen like a deer in headlights.

_Move, lips, move! Make words!_

"Um...Uh…I…I'm new here and…Um…Aren't you dead?"

_Nice words. How about something that _isn't_ stupid?_

"Well, erm, not the last time I checked," George shrugged in all seriousness. His eyes went from me to the mannequin. "Is that my jacket?" he asked, pointing.

_Jacket. George Harrison. Put jacket on George Harrison. Do it, body. Do it now._

I whipped the jacket off the mannequin and held it out so George could put it on. He slipped his arms through the sleeves and I couldn't help thinking how cute he was with his modestly-cut brown hair and dark eyes.

I snapped out of it. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. I wasn't back in the 60s. I couldn't be. It was impossible.

"Nice fit," George complimented. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or just to himself. When he turned to me and shot me that quirky half-smile, I knew he was complimenting me.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, backing up a little. "I didn't do that. Marie did. I'm just supposed to make a couple adjustments."

_My longest sentence to Beatle George Harrison: eight words. Hold your applause…_

"Oh," he shrugged. He tugged at his sleeves. "These cuffs are just a little bit too long," his oh-so-sexy voice slurred. "Do you think you could take them up just about half an inch?"

I reached out and felt the sleeves with a butterfly touch. I felt his eyes on me, but when I looked up, his gaze shot in the other direction and he whistled a couple notes.

_Great. Even George Harrison thinks I'm a weirdo._

I slowly slipped the pincushion bracelet over my wrist and held George's arm up to the light so I could see the stitching better. I held a couple pins in my mouth and I curled the sleeves up exactly half an inch as he had requested. When I had the cuffs pinned in the right places, I looked him in the face and got nervous again.

"Um…Want me to fix it?" I whispered.

_UGH! Back to five words._

"Oh, yeah," George said absently. He slipped out of the jacket and handed it to me, adjusting the collar of his black turtleneck sweater. I pulled a needle out of the pincushion and selected a better color of thread. And then I went to work.

It wasn't a very hard job. I was done in about three minutes. Then, I handed the jacket back and George tried it on again.

"Much better," he smiled. "Thanks."

There was an awkward pause. Suddenly, the door flung open and Marie stomped into the room. When she saw George, her tread lightened and she giggled almost flirtatiously. For some reason, a little twinge of jealousy sparked in my mind.

_That woman is ten years older than him. What a whore!_

"Hello, Mr. Harrison," she greeted him. "Is everything all right?" She spied the recently-altered cuffs. "Oh, my! I thought I had those fixed! Don't worry, Mr. Harrison. I'll have those done in a jiffy." She pulled out a ripper and brandished it light a knight's sword.

"No, it's fine," George protested. "I prefer my sleeves just a tad short." He looked at me again and I blushed, looking away. "Besides, my sweater shows and you really can't tell the difference."

"Oh, really?" Marie's voice was drenched with partly confusion and partly anger. Her eyes flared at me as if she was jealous that George just looked at me. "That's fine then." She turned on me and said through gritted teeth, "Remember who you are, kid." I gulped.

"Yes, ma'am," I shivered. My fear seemed to brighten Marie up and she smiled back at George.

"Well, is that all, Mr. Harrison?" she beamed.

"Actually," George pondered out loud, "I think I'd like to get this girl as our personal assistant for our time on the show." My heart fluttered. I could tell by Marie's facial expression that her heart was sinking lower than the Titanic.

"Right," she said through gritted teeth. Then, her voice changed to a sickeningly sweet tone. "Okay, kid. Looks like your first official job. And you just starting today."

"Yeah," I muttered, not making eye-contact.

"Well, you'd better go with Mr. Harrison," Marie hissed. "And I'll see you later to discuss your _payment_." The last word was purred so sweetly honey dripped from it in midair.

_Oh God._

"Right." I turned to George and gave him a meek smile. "Thank you, sir."

"The pleasure's all mine," he smiled. "C'mon and I'll take you back to the dressing room." When we were out of the makeup-wardrobe department, George turned his head to me. "I…would never have guessed that you were new here. You seem so…professional."

"Thanks," I whispered.

_Oh I'm a professional all right. A professional loser!_

There was silence. For a second, I thought my brains had leaked my private scolding into the universe and George Harrison had picked up on it somehow. And now he was being driven away by my spastic stupidity. Finally, the silence was broken when we walked up to a door with a star on it.

"Here we are," he muttered, opening the door for me. "Lads, I found us an assistant."


	6. Harrassed by Lennon

_I can't believe it! Two of these people are dead! And the rest of them are…old._

But there they were, large as life and in their 20s. The actual Beatles! The actual John Lennon stood up and walked over to George and me, looking me up and down.

It was then that I became aware that I was still wearing my Ulla costume: a white spaghetti-strap top, a super-short (and even hiked up a little bit from my alterations) white skirt, and six-inch white heels to make me taller than my normal 5'4"…an Amazon, to be precise.

"Well, love, good to have you onboard," John Lennon winked.

_Oh my God. John Lennon is flirting with me…Isn't he married?_

"She's pretty young," Paul McCartney pointed out. "I would've thought they'd assign us some old lady so there wouldn't be a danger of fans getting in here."

"Well, she wasn't really 'assigned' so to speak," George blushed. "I decided to hire her. She's new here and was working down in the costume department."

"I see. Does she have a name?" Ringo asked, walking up to me.

"Yeah…um…Y'know, come to think of it, I don't know your name, love," George mumbled to me so he wouldn't look silly. My mind went blank.

_What's my name? I can't remember…SHIT!_

"Q-Quinn Winslow," I managed to squeak out to George.

"Quinn Winslow," George repeated to the other three Beatles. John's eyebrows went up and he gave a knowing look to Paul and Ringo. Ringo smirked, but Paul rolled his eyes. "Pretty name," George said mostly to himself, but I could still hear him and my face went beet-red in three seconds.

"Winslow, eh?" John smirked. "I like it. So, Winslow, love, what's it about you that caught George's eye, here? Could it be your gorgeous figure? Your shapely legs? Your lovely face?" I blushed harder. "Oh! I know what it is! It's how cute you look when you blush!" He clapped his hands together and held them above his head like he had just won a major prize on a TV game show.

"Oh stop it, John," Paul scolded. "You're making her go brighter than a tomato." Paul walked over to me and put his arm around my shoulders, giving me a friendly "I'm here for you" shake.

"She doesn't mind," John scoffed, laughing as he went to a couch and sat down. He reclined his feet on the other side of the couch, making it un-sit-able for anyone else.

"So, really, George," Ringo chuckled, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, "what about Quinn made her so special that she _had_ to be our assistant?" The way John and Ringo were talking, it was as if I was a burden. But the jovial looks on their faces proved otherwise. George's face was as red as mine, though.

_Why's _he _embarrassed? I'm the one being harassed by John Lennon and Ringo Starr._

"I just thought she was really nice…and she's really talented," George mumbled, looking at his feet.

"Talented is right," John whistled, winking at me and looking me up and down yet again.

_How many times is this man going to look at my figure? He's seen it enough already!_

"You know I'm just kidding around, right?" John said seriously. "I don't mean to be a pervert or scare you off."

"Well," I smiled. "I know _now_." John fell back in his seat and clutched at his chest.

"And a voice like an angel's!" he gasped teasingly. "Speak again, Winslow! I beg of you!" He jumped out of his seat, ran over to me, dropped to his knees, and grabbed the end of my skirt. "I must hear that voice again!"

"You are so weird," I laughed. John sighed in admiration, stood up, and kissed my hand.

"Thank you, fair lady," he chuckled. "I do my best to please. So if you were working in the costume department, does that mean you sew?" I nodded. "Well, that's a useful talent indeed. In fact," He turned around and showed that a seam on the back of his jacket was coming loose, "I could use such a talent right now."

"Oh, you must help him, all-powerful Quinn!" Ringo shouted dramatically. "We go onstage in seven minutes!" He grabbed my hand and kneeled. "You must save us from wardrobe malfunctions!"

"I shall help," I said, also dramatically. "I need my tools. Paul! Get me my needle and some black thread!"

Paul saluted, smirking, and walked over to a cabinet on the far side of the dressing room. When he opened it, I saw that it contained napkins, different spools of thread, and other objects that might be needed for backstage emergencies. From the cabinet, Paul retrieved a pincushion, a small pair of scissors, and a spool of the blackest thread he could find. When he returned them to me, he saluted again and plopped down on the couch to watch.

I pulled out a needle from the pincushion and snipped a piece of thread off the spool. I got the eye of the needle lined up with my own eye and slipped the end of the thread through. With that, I looked carefully at the problematic seam in John's jacket.

"That's an easy fix," I mumbled to myself. I looked up at John who was now trying to crane his neck around so he could see what was going on. "All I have to do is get a hold of the loose thread and tighten it back to its original place," I told him.

"That's all, is it?" John smirked. It was obvious that he didn't think it was as simple as I made it out to be.

_Well, I'll show _him_!_

"That's all," I grinned. "And now, I go to work."

I felt the seam of the jacket until I found where the original thread ended. I grabbed it and managed to tie the original thread to the new thread on my needle. Now, it was a simple matter of sewing the seam back up. As I worked, I felt four pairs of eyes on me. I looked up.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," all four boys replied at once, turning away. I rolled my eyes and continued working on the jacket. It took a little bit longer for me to finish John's jacket because half the seam was completely unraveled. In all, I took about six minutes.

"Done," I smirked, knotting the end of the thread and snipping off the extra. "Lookin' sharp, John."

John walked over to the mirror and looked at my work. He ran his hand over his hair, smoothing down a couple flyaway strands. His face looked deep in thought and for a moment, I thought I messed something up.

_Just what I need. Congratulations, Quinn! You just screwed up a Beatle's jacket!_

"You," John said slowly, not changing his facial expression, "are _very_ good." His face lit up, he gave a goofy laugh, and he ran back to me, scooping me off the floor in a big bear hug. I caught sight of George's face and he looked almost like he was mad or something.

"You're on, boys," said someone outside the door as they knocked. "Let's go."

"Right," John grinned, putting me down. "Let's get at it." I watched as they walked out of the dressing room. George paused for a moment, looking back at me before closing the door behind him. I collapsed on the couch, my mind in the clouds.


	7. A cut and a ruined moment

While I listened to the boys play over the intercom, I thought about what was going on.

For some reason, people kept trying to convince me that I was in the 1960s. But, there were a lot of reasons for me to believe it. I mean, the _Ed Sullivan Show_ in full business. The Beatles in their 20s. I smacked myself in the face.

_I must be dreaming._

I pinched myself.

"OW!"

_No. I'm not dreaming. Wait! My wish!_

My mouth fell open as I remembered the night before when I had wished upon 11:11. Could it be that my wish actually came true and I was really away from my old life? What's more, I was right there, talking to the Beatles, perhaps my favorite group that ever lived!

_Holy crap. I really _have_ been transported back to the 1960s!_

"OW!" I exclaimed again. I had been thinking so hard that I had gripped the needle in my hand too tightly. As a small drop of red blood came out of my fingertip, I heard Ed Sullivan finish his interview with the Beatles. Girls screamed as the boys walked offstage.

I stood up to go wash off my finger and get a Band-aid from the cabinet. Before I got too far, George walked into the room.

"Hey," he said quietly.

"Hey," I returned. "Where are the others?"

"Toilet," he shrugged, jerking his head to the side to indicate that the bathroom was down the hall.

"Oh."

"Quinn?"

"Yeah, George?"

"What did you do to your finger?"

I looked back down at my finger to see that the little prick of blood had become a cut and a small stream of blood was making its way down my hand to my wrist.

"Darn!" I exclaimed under my breath, hurrying over to the sink. I turned on the water and washed off the extra blood. The cut wasn't too deep, but it was deep enough to bleed, obviously. I washed it off with soap. When I turned to get a napkin from the cabinet, George already had it in his hand. "Thanks," I smiled weakly. I dried off my finger and reached for a Band-aid to see that George had already gotten that as well. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he mumbled. But he didn't hand me the Band-aid. Instead, he took the paper off it and wrapped it around the cut gently. "There you go," he muttered to himself.

"Thank you, George," I smiled softly. Ever since I had first heard the Beatles, George had been my favorite. It was almost too much to stand to have him right there, touching my hand. George leaned towards me, his hand reaching for my face.

_OH MY GOD! GEORGE HARRISON IS GOING TO KISS ME!_

"What's goin' on in here?" John whistled as he burst through the door.

"Nothing," George said hurriedly, pulling away. "Quinn just got a cut."

"A little bit clumsy, eh, Winslow?" John teased, walking over to me and leading me to the couch. As Ringo and Paul walked into the room, John started spouting out ideas. "Wouldn't it be gear for us to go out and get something to eat? I'm starved!"

"Yeah," Ringo agreed. "And we can take Quinn with us!"

"Good idea," John nodded. "We need to get to know our little assistant."

"Do you want to come?" Paul chuckled. "Better answer now before _they_ decide you're going."

"I'd love to come," I laughed. I was a little upset that John ruined the moment between George and me, but who's to say that was a moment in the first place. George was probably just going to put some loose hair behind me ear or something. Goodness knows what I looked like after this hectic day.

"I'll be right back," George announced before leaving the room.

_Now where's he skittering off to?_

"He'll be back. Probably just visiting the toilet," Paul shrugged, reading my facial expression. "He skipped because he said he forgot something in the dressing room."

"Well, he'll miss out on picking where we're going to eat," John smirked. "Too bad for him."

"Since we're new in America, I think we should ask Quinn where we should go eat," Ringo suggested. "She knows her way around here better than we do."

_Crap! No I don't. I don't know my way around anywhere in the 60s!_

"Um…Well…Uh…I would, but…You see…"

"What's wrong, Winslow?" John asked. "You new here too?"

_SAVED BY THE WORDS OF JOHN LENNON!_

"Yes, actually," I said. "I just moved here recently. From California."

"Oh!" Paul, John, and Ringo said in unison. "California."

"Nice state, I hear," Ringo grinned.

"Very warm," Paul nodded.

"Lots of gear clubs in Hollywood," John smirked, straightening his collar. "We should really go there sometime. Maybe on vacation?"

"You should definitely go," I smiled. "It's great there. The beach is fantastic."

"Well, since none of us know anything about New York," Paul thought out loud, "maybe we should just drive around until we find a place that looks good."

"Sounds like a plan," Ringo agreed. "We'll just wait for George to come back." This last statement was directed at John, who was already starting to go for the door.


	8. The first note

Dinner was so much fun! The boys all wore disguises so no one would recognize them and chase after them. We talked a lot about random things. Whenever one of them asked about my past, I would skillfully make something up. I wanted them to think I was a really cool girl instead of a big dork, especially George.

"So, love, where are you staying?" Ringo asked, shoveling a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth and being careful to avoid his fake mustache.

_Darn. The one question I can't dance around._

"Nowhere," I shrugged.

"'Nowhere' meaning you don't want to tell us or 'nowhere' meaning you don't have a place to stay?" John smirked, the ends of his fake beard turning up in his silly grin. I paused for a moment.

"Both?" I tried.

"Well that clinches it," Ringo laughed. "You're staying with us."

"Do you want to stay with us?" Paul offered, rolling his eyes, smoothing out his handlebar mustache, and pushing his fake glasses up his nose.

"That'd be great!" I exclaimed, my heart leaping into my throat.

_Imagine me! Quinn Winslow! Living with _the _Beatles!_

"We'll have to get another room," George pointed out quietly. I turned to look at him but all I saw was his massive fake sideburn blocking his face.

"No we won't," John teased. "She can sleep in _my_ bed."

"And where will _you_ sleep?" Paul asked, giving John a warning look.

"In my bed too," he joked, winking at me. "I don't think Winslow minds. Do you, Winslow?"

"It doesn't matter if she minds or not," Ringo chuckled. "I agree with George. We'll rent out the room next door so Quinn has her own place."

"Okay," I smiled, taking a bite of my cheeseburger. I leaned over and took a slurp of my strawberry malt.

"I'll tell you, Winslow," John said in all seriousness, "I can't imagine that a bird with _your_ figure can eat like _that_."

"I exercise a lot," I shrugged. "Being in theatre, I do a lot of dancing and running around. It's very fun and it keeps me healthy too." John eyed me teasingly.

"Remind me to take you to a club sometime," he purred. "I want to see this dancing." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw George's fingers grip around his water glass.

_What's up with him?_

"Well, we should get going," George announced, standing up. "I'll pay. John, you go get a cab."

"Okay, boss," John rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Winslow. Let's go get a taxi together."

"I need Quinn to come with me," George said solemnly.

"Oh…Okay," John shrugged. "C'mon, Paul, Ringo." The three other Beatles walked out of the restaurant.

"Is everything okay, George?" I asked as we walked up to the front desk to pay our bill.

"You know that John is married, right?" George said softly but firmly.

"Of course," I told him. "What's the matter?" George didn't say anything else. He just kept his eyes ahead, staring at the wall. "George," I whispered, putting my hand on his arm, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," George retorted stiffly. "Go tell John that I have a quick stop I need to make on the way back to the hotel and that I'll be back later." I drew back from him and nodded slowly, walking outside.

"What's wrong, Quinn?" Ringo asked, putting his hand on my shoulder. "You look like someone's taken the good mood right out of you."

"It's nothing, Ringo," I said, forcing myself to smile. "Hey, John?" John turned his head around. "George said to tell you that he has an errand to run and that he'll be back at the hotel later."

"That's so like him," John huffed. "Make plans and then change them in five seconds. No one can tell what that bloke is going to do next!"

"Right, then," Paul interrupted John's tirade. "Then it's just Quinn, Ringo, you, and me. So let's go."

. . . .

The boys weren't kidding when they said that they'd get me my own room. They did actually rent out the room next door to theirs so that if anything bad happened, they'd be right next door so they could help me.

This hotel room was more expensive and beautiful than any of the houses I'd ever lived in for my entire life. The bed was plush and comfortable and the blankets were all soft and warm. The lavender carpets tickled my feet if I walked barefoot and the ceiling even had a pretty pattern on it. The walls were papered in a light turquoise. And lamps hung from both sides of the double bed. It didn't take me long at all to fall asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, a familiar scent greeted my nose. I popped my eyes open and took a deep breath. Coffee and roses! I sat up and kicked my blankets off, tearing into the little kitchen area. Sunlight was filtering in from the bedroom window and warmed my bare legs. (On the way back, John had the cab stop at a little store and bought me a nightgown since I "didn't appear to have one of my own.")

The little, round kitchen table was built specifically for one. I would always be going over for meals next door because apparently if I didn't, John and Ringo would come and carry me over. But, on the table, there was a vase of white and dark purple roses and a cup of hot coffee. I walked over to the table and sniffed the flowers. They really were beautiful. I picked up the cup and took a deep whiff, sighing happily. As I took a sip of the coffee, I noticed a small letter on the table. I picked it up.

_**To Quinn**_

I turned it over in my hands, but there wasn't any other writing on it. I wondered who it was from and I tore open the envelope. Unfolding the letter inside, I started reading.

_**You're beautiful. Every time I look at you, I see the sun, even if it is gray and raining outside. What I wouldn't give to hold you in my arms and call you mine.**_

_**Your secret admirer**_

My heart soared. I never had a secret admirer in all my life. I never had anyone ever say these things to me and it made me feel amazing. But, unfortunately, I had to have other things on my mind besides the letter.

_Maybe the boys will take me clothes shopping today if they have nothing better to do._

I didn't want to be a sponge, but something told me that John and Ringo would insist once they saw that I was wearing the same outfit two days in a row. Paul would ask me politely if I wanted to go shopping. I would say yes. And George would not be part of the conversation. He was being so quiet ever since he helped me with my cut. I was beginning to worry. He had been so sweet and talkative when we first met. But now he was just keeping to himself, always slinking off to do who knows what.

But, I reluctantly pushed that thought out of my mind as someone knocked at my door. I drained the rest of the coffee, put the cup in the sink, and walked over to the door, smoothing down the wrinkles in my new pajamas.

"Good morning, Winslow," John grinned. "I see that the nightie fits like a glove just like I said it would."

"Yes it does," I smiled, turning around so he could see it from all angles. "Thanks again. I don't think I would've enjoyed sleeping in my cos…I mean clothes." John gave me a look before shrugging.

"The breakfast has just been brought up. The lads and I are starving and they sent me over here to get you. We won't start without you, you know," he winked. I started to close the door.

"I'll just get changed and…"

"Oh no, not when we're _this_ hungry!" John shouted, scooping me off the floor. One of his arms looped around my legs and the other arm held me around my back. I squealed, throwing my arms around his neck so I wouldn't fall.

"John!" I screamed. "Put me down!" A few people were poking their heads out of their hotel room doors and giving us odd looks.

"My fiancé," John shrugged to them, growling at me seductively and kissing my neck.

"JOHN!" I exclaimed again, kicking my legs in a very poor attempt to get down.

"Love you too, honey," he purred. He shot a mischievous glance at the people in the hall and kicked the door to his hotel room open. Swooping in, he dropped me unceremoniously on the couch. "She's here!" he announced to the other three Beatles.


	9. The next morning

Chapter Nine

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

** Okay, people. I know you want me to update and everything, but geez! I say on my page that I am on hiatus, working on my ACTUAL novel and not just fanfiction. I'm trying to branch out and do some stuff that could get published and put in bookstores. While it is fun to write about the Beatles or the Monkees or any of the other characters I have posted about, I do have other characters that are my own that also need my attention. So don't worry. I will add more to my stories when I have time and I'm not in deep Writers' Block. If you really want to see more chapters, send me comments giving me ideas, please. It's a lot more helpful than "ADD MORE OR I WILL COME AFTER YOU WITH A CHAINSAW!" Thanks, people.**

"John, I am going to kill you!" I shouted as I wrestled to get off the couch. I felt stupid and like a turtle. I stopped struggling for a minute. "Could you help me get up?" I asked meekly.

"Why should I?" John smirked. "You're so much more _vulnerable_ this way."

"John Lennon," Paul scolded, "you let Quinn up right now!"

"Yes, mother," John rolled his eyes, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the couch. "Just having a little fun."

"Yeah, well, have a different kind of 'little fun,'" Ringo snorted. "We're starving over here and what do you do? You torture Quinn. What's that for being a friend?"

"Oh yeah!" John laughed, putting his hand on his forehead. "Breakfast! I totally forgot!" A door on the far side of the room opened and George emerged. He yawned, stretching his arms up to the ceiling.

"Good morning, all," he mumbled sleepily. His eyes wandered over to me. "Good morning, Quinn," he smiled. "Sleep well?"

"Wonderfully, thank you," I blushed.

"Good. And how do you like your room?" he asked. "I got back late last night and didn't have a chance to ask you."

_Wow! He's being talkative this morning! What a change from last night…_

"Oh, I like it fine," I grinned. "This hotel is better than some of the houses I've lived in!" George chuckled and stretched again.

"So, what's for breakfast?" he said, eyeing the kitchen table hungrily.

"Bacon, sausage, scrambled eggs, cornflakes," Paul shrugged. "The usual."

"Sounds delicious," George licked his lips. His eyes turned to me again. "Can I help you into your seat, Quinn?" He walked to the large table and pulled out a chair. I followed him and sat down.

"Thanks," I smiled. George grinned that same quirky smile and sat down next to me, helping himself to some cornflakes right off the bat.

"You seem in high spirits this morning," John chortled quietly, throwing a look at George. George returned the look with one of warning. They stared at each other for a moment before George broke the gaze and continued shoveling cornflakes into his mouth.

"I _am_ in high spirits," he mumbled politely. "Maybe that's why it seems like it."

"No need to get fussy," John protested, holding up his hands (one of which had a strip of bacon in it). "I was just pointing out that you're in a better mood than you were in last night." George ignored John and took a link of sausage from the plate.

"So," I bit my lip, breaking the silence, "what's on tap for today? What's everyone doing?"

The boys all looked at each other thoughtfully before looking back at me. They continued eating their breakfast.

"We'll figure it out," Paul shrugged. "I think John said something about taking you shopping to get you some new clothes."

"That's right," John grinned. "Since you didn't even have a proper nightie, I figured you might need some other clothes too."

"You figured right," I smirked under my breath.

"And while we're out we can get you some nice undies too."

"JOHN!" Paul and Ringo yelled together, swatting the offending band mate.

"What?" he complained. "You were all thinking it! And you _know _it!"


End file.
